


Shell of a Man

by BrokenKestral (Amphigoriously)



Series: Shell of a Man [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amphigoriously/pseuds/BrokenKestral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sits in his brother's office, ornery and looking for a fight to quell a need he can't possibly hope to fulfill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shell of a Man

Sherlock Holmes sat strewn across the chair opposite his brother’s desk, an indiscernible expression on his face, drumming long fingers against one lean thigh, a smirk gradually blossoming over his angular features. “So then, dear brother,” His voice dripping with sarcasm and icy detachment, but the vaguest hint of arousal obvious beneath his cool exterior, “Since I’ve been so very _naughty_ , I suppose I’m in for a spanking?”  
  
Mycroft hitched up an eyebrow, the constant scratch of pen on paper pausing for a brief second before continuing again. "Honestly brother, I don't know that 'naughty,' adequately describes your insolence."  
  
The smirk on Sherlock's face deepened, raising the corner of his full mouth in a cocky gesture. "Yes, and how exactly would you describe my behavior, Mycroft?" Sherlock continued the drumbeat on his thigh, pale eyes gazing without faltering at his older brother.  
  
"Childlike?" Mycroft replied casually, eyes never leaving his documents, "Foolhardy, predictable... _reckless_." He stopped writing as the last word fell from his lips, lacing his fingers together over the blotter and fixing Sherlock with his most withering glare.  
  
The younger man let out a small snort of derision. "You would have me locked away in some dusty office or safely pinned away in my flat doing nothing. Just like you." He returned the glare, heartbeat picking up slightly at the intense eye contact. "That's what's made you so.... _soft_." Letting the final word drop, silky and venomous.  
  
Mycroft's face split into a wide, delighted smile. Sherlock was toying with him, inviting his anger. "So transparent, dear brother. How do you manage such disguise all the time? It's as though your very mind is written on your sleeve."  
  
Giving his brother a cold, calculating smile that didn’t reach past his lips, Sherlock replied in kind, voice intrigued, "Then do tell, Mycroft. Tell me my own mind." Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, Sherlock’s voice dropped into a low, silky purr. " _Deduce Me_."  
  
Mycroft rose and circled his desk. He stopped when he was directly in front of Sherlock, and settled against the wood of the large desk, index finger against his mouth as he surveyed his sibling. Sherlock's eyes burned defiantly and his cock twitched with the fire of it. "Did you enjoy my little lecture at Buckingham, brother? What was it like, I wonder, when I announced your celibacy to your dear flatmate?"  
  
Sherlock's face flushed brilliantly red before paling; he bit his tongue and glared vehemently at the man standing before him, already feeling the answering rush of heat in his groin. "Of course. _Of course_ you'll bring John into it." Curling his upper lip in a sneer, he continued. "You do so love to see me in a snit, brother."  
  
“Nonsense, Sherlock," Mycroft retorted, dragging the syllables of Sherlock's name out as Ms. Hudson would. "I've only ever your best interests at heart." He slid his foot forward, between Sherlock's polished shoes. "It is a shame, his taste for woman."  
  
He clenched his jaw hard enough to feel the pain of it lancing down his neck, but managed to keep Mycroft's gaze for another moment before breaking it finally, dark hair obscuring his face, unable to find the words for a moment and instead staring at Mycroft's shoe between his own, heart thrumming in his ears.  
  
"It's not a truth you are responsible for, Sherlock," Mycroft said, gentling his tone for a moment, "However, you cannot use it to justify such recklessness with your life." His tone chastised as he rose to his full height. Sherlock's knees framed his as he looked down on his brother.  
  
Looking up at the man drawing ever nearer to him with fierce defiance written in his eyes, Sherlock’s face became a mask of slow-simmering anger. "I was reckless long before John Watson and I'll be reckless long after he's gone." Shifting his hips imperceptibly in the chair, sitting up straighter, Sherlock became aware that he was able to smell the other man's cologne, the subtle perfume of his soap, the starch on his clothes.  
  
Mycroft couldn’t help but empathize with the younger man. He'd loved without reciprocation, it was the most vulnerable pain one could experience without bodily injury. It was no mystery why his brother responded to his first curt demand for his presence here today. Sherlock lived to defy, his motives were entirely self-satisfying. "Have you come for mercy, Sherlock," Mycroft inquired as he rested a hand gently atop the head of black curls, "or _punishment_?" He demanded, fisting Sherlock's hair between his fingers and wrenching the man's head back, forcing him to meet his eyes.  
  
Sherlock looked up at his brother for a moment with wide, almost childlike eyes at the hand in his hair, his expression twisting and contorting at the vicious tug, a moan ripping its way from his throat at the contact with sensitive follicles, his hips squirming unconsciously in the chair. Opening his eyes again, he glared up at his brother, back arching, swallowing thickly, his adam's apple bobbing in the long column of his pale throat. "Neither." Sherlock spit the word out vehemently.  
  
"Mmmm, clearly," Mycroft replied, Sherlock had given him all he needed to know. Mycroft leaned down and traced Sherlock's chest with his hand, bunching the expensive fabric of Sherlock's shirt in his palm. No one knew the man before him as he did. "And all the King's horses couldn't put Sherlock together again," he whispered before capturing Sherlock's scowling lips with his own.  
  
Sherlock made a low growling noise in his throat at the abuse of his shirt, the bridge of his nose between his eyes crinkling in distaste. His heart hammered in his ribcage as Mycroft's lips closed over his and  he responded in kind, pressing upward to seek more contact, nipping lightly at the other man's bottom lip.  
  
"Perhaps," Mycroft whispered, breaking his lips from Sherlock's for only a moment, "perhaps if you told him?" he suggested, half-heatedly, recapturing Sherlock's mouth with his own. He was shamelessly erect by now, his intentions clear as the light of day.  
  
Face flushing at the mention of John, the thought only proved to send another wave of heat between Sherlock’s legs. "Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock punctuated the thought by pressing his mouth firmly over the older man's, deepening it to slide his tongue against Mycroft’s, tentatively raising a hand to press against his thigh, hating himself for his inexperience, for his timidness, and hating the way his brother was already fast unraveling him.  
  
"Why would I do that, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, voice all honey and wine, as he mouthed the younger man's ear. Sherlock was practically perspiring beneath him and it sent more than one twinge of guilt though the older man's gut. He'd been right, Sherlock was without experience. His cock jumped at the thought. "This is your only opportunity to leave, brother. You are far too delightful to resist, and your continued occupation of my office will serve as consent from here out."  
  
Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed as he tried to hold back the low whining moan forming in his throat at the attention being paid to his ear, but he didn’t dare to move from his seat, instead resolutely sliding his hand sideways to palm Mycroft through the expensive fabric of his trousers, the heat of it pooling to meet his touch, his own erection responding with a wholehearted jump within the confines of his own.  
  
Mycroft rose to his full height and struck Sherlock across his face; his erection throbbing against his trousers. "In this room, brother, we play by my rules." Mycroft instructed, relishing the look of utter shock painted across Sherlock's sharp features. If the satisfaction of self-loathing was what his brother sought, he'd come to an expert in the field. "Rest your hands at your side and do not move them unless given permission to do so," he snapped, fingers tracing the hot welts the back of his hand left moments before.  
  
The younger man let out a soft, surprised gasp, head turning sharply to the side but  he didn’t dare to raise a hand to touch his cheek, pale skin flushing pink with embarrassment and then red, a perfect handprint laid out across the sharp angles of his face. Biting back a sharp retort, Sherlock lowered both hands to clench the armrests tightly, knuckles turning white, cock giving a responding jerk between his legs at the violence accorded him. Sherlock looked up at his brother with venom in his eyes, desire burning deep in their pale depths.  
  
The obedience was concerning. Mycroft cataloged it for later review. Right now, he'd one very lost, very volatile Sherlock to deal with. Better his cock than the prick of a needle, he reasoned. "Eyes always on mine, _detective_ ," he instructed, lacing the title with as much sarcasm as he could manage. His left hand went to Sherlock's throat, clamping down tight enough to restrict air-flow, as his right trailed straight for Sherlock's cock, bulging against the fine fabric of his suit.  
  
Sherlock let out a low, breathy moan, muffled through the hand around his throat, hips rising against Mycroft's touch, aching for moremoremore, forcing his eyes open and trained on Mycroft's, panting softly.  
  
Mycroft let loose his grip on the younger man's throat, exchanging it for a grip on his trousers. The metal of Sherlock's fly was hot and strained. Keeping his eyes on Sherlock's, he demanded the truth. "Whose hands have been where mine are about to go, Sherlock?" he asked, thumb tracing the outline of the straining cock beneath him.  
  
The younger brother swallowed thickly, voice thick with arousal and raw. "No one." Flushing hot and angry, Sherlock found that almost two decades of suppressed erections did nothing to help the one currently aching to be free. Moving forward in a darting motion, Sherlock captured his brother's mouth on his again, knowing it would cost him and waiting for the consequence.  
  
Mycroft bent to the sudden kiss, momentarily overwhelmed with the accuracy of his assumptions. He responded in kind, tongue darting out to run along Sherlock's typically scathing lips. Oh, how he could not _wait_ to unravel the man beneath him. The confirmation of virginity was enough to break his stride, unhinge his control. He shoved Sherlock roughly against the leather armchair with a splayed hand against his chest. "Do not. Move." he instructed, deftly dragging the zip of his trousers down.  
  
The young man fell back against the cushions, panting slightly, lips flushed with the urgency of the kiss, eyes falling to watch the other man's elegant hands at the zipper, unconsciously darting his tongue out over his bottom lip to drag it backward to worry it with his teeth, for the moment compliant, staying shock still against the chair, only his shoulders rising and falling with ragged breath.  
  
Mycroft studied the open gap of fabric at Sherlock's groin. _Slow and steady or fast and violent_? Sherlock’s  breathing was audible, his respirations ragged and uncontrolled. He was afraid, exhilarated. Funny how emotion never fit in a box when it is overwhelming. Biting his lip, Mycroft went with his gut and plunged his hand into the gap, meeting the endearing fabric of pants. A moment later he'd found the vertical split in those as well, and at long last flesh met flesh. Sherlock was so hot it could burn. Thick and long and unfairly perfect in this, as all things, his cock was a wonder to behold. He wrapped his fingers around flesh only now meeting foreign skin.  
  
The single touch sent a frisson of pleasure ricocheting through the younger Holmes, his eyes falling closed, head rolling back to expose the long pale line of his throat, a moan rippling through him, hips rising from the chair against the fingers wrapped around him, his own fingers gripping hard at the leather of the armrests.  
  
"You are not a _freak_ , Sherlock," Mycroft whispered as he pulled him free of his trousers, "You are -dare I say- a man," drawing the final declaration out like a mantra, twisting on the upstroke. Sherlock was beautiful like this, where Mycroft was sure he himself is not. The thought was uninvited, unwelcome, infuriating. "You owe me a debt for my leaving you so many preferable genes," he whispered, taking Sherlock's mouth with his own as he slowly worked his cock, savoring the surrender and silence. He had wounds of his own, after all.  
  
A breathless moan ripped from him, muffled by the feel of Mycroft's mouth suddenly back on his own, and he leaned into the contact, exploring his brother's mouth with his tongue, rapidly falling apart under the warm fingers wrapped around him.  
  
Mycroft gentled, sliding his hand along Sherlock's sharp jaw and into his hair, momentarily wanting to take the man before him slowly, gently. He wanted to rescue him. It then occured to Mycroft that this is both not within his scope of ability, nor either of their desire. Demonstration first, that is reasonable. "Do not move, Sherlock, do not touch me." he instructs before sinking to his knees. He licked his lips before plunging them around the head of Sherlock's cock, all wet, suctioning heat.  
  
A needy, keening sound, strangled, sounded deep within the man still sitting in the chair, heat and pleasure coiling deep in his belly, foreign, needy, consuming. Sherlock found himself unable to keep his hand from slipping into Mycroft's hair, not to pull him closer, but just to acknowledge that this feeling, this all-consuming fire wrapped around him was real, hips snapping upward. "God... Fuck.... I can't...."  
  
Mycroft pulled off Sherlock with a resounding 'pop,' one hand still gripping the base of his cock. "Sherlock, we are not done until I say we are done, is that clear?" he practically ordered, his thumb tracing circles around the head of Sherlock's cock. The distraction was enough to ground him in reality, and he realized he had far too many plans to allow Sherlock this release.  
  
"I want you standing."  
  
The younger man took a moment to calm himself, to reel in his breathless gasping, to push back the flush of arousal spreading down his high sharp cheeks and over his collarbone, before finally pushing himself to his feet, trousers falling off his narrow hips to puddle at his feet, with the tinny sound of his belt clicking on itself seeming loud in the silence between the two men.  
  
"Strip," Mycroft commanded, standing his ground. He may have been physically lacking in stature compared to Sherlock, but what he lacked in vertical gifts he more than made up for in human contact. Watson was a fool for missing this, and he'd no intention of sending his little brother into the night as naive as he arrived.  
  
Sherlock clenched his jaw again, a flush coloring his cheeks, his rebellious nature asserting itself, fiery eyes flashing at the other man, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. " _No_." The single word  echoed sharp, testing the waters,  as he tryed to assert his dominance in the new situation so as not to lose himself completely in the threatening tide.  
  
"How endearing," Mycroft said as he leaned against his desk, casually unfastening his own trousers. He took himself in hand, pulling in slow, gentle strokes, "though not congruent to the present situation." He quirked an eyebrow as he dragged his hand absent-mindedly over his own cock.  
  
Looking pointedly, unashamedly at the other man's prick, Sherlock reached a hand forward to swat Mycroft's away and replace it with his own, mimicking his brother's motions with the slightest added twist, rubbing his thumb up over the tip and alternating watching the motions of his hand on his brother's heated skin and the other man's face.  
  
"Ever the observer," Mycroft whispered, giving in to the wild sensation of those long, skilled fingers against his own skin. The pattern is identical, the rhythm mythodic. The distraction allowed him to suddenly grab Sherlock's hand and torque it behind his back, doubling the taller man over at the midsection as he took Sherlock's cock into his own hand. "Your generosity knows no bounds, does it?" he hissed, drudging up all the venom he still commands. "One moment of disregard and here you are, face down over your brother's desk, cock against the mahogany, dying for someone, anyone to simply _see you_ ," he whispered as he cupped Sherlock's balls in hand, squeezing  
  
Sherlock let out a strangled moan against the desk, cheek pressed down on the cool wood, rutting unconsciously against it, trapped by the man behind him, by the trousers still around his ankles. Managing to turn the sound into a low growl, he tried desperately to struggle out of the situation, his other hand pressing long fingers against the desk and pressing upward, trying to raise his torso up, the humility crippling.  
  
"Friction is the devil's invention," Mycroft whispered, gently sliding his hand up from below Sherlock's bullocks to his cock. No aspect of his groin is worthy of shame, though Sherlock could not possibly know this. One hand on his cock, the other sliding down his back, Mycroft whispered, "Truly Sherlock, logic does not have a reserved seat in all situations." Before his idealistic, self-loathing sibling could reply he slid his hand over his hips, taking his cock up yet again.  
  
"Beg for it, Sherlock, tell me what you want," he whispered, breath wet and hot against Sherlock's exposed ear.  
  
Growling and turning his face the other way on the table, Sherlock shook his head vehemently in the negative, but his hips bucked instinctively forward, seeking the feeling of hot skin, of tight fingers, both hands splaying on the dark wood on either side of his shoulders. After a moment a hissed, strangled word fell from between clenched teeth and barely parted lips. "Please..."  
  
 _When did he ever know what he wanted_? Mycroft asked himself, loathing the instant need to relieve Sherlock of his humiliation. 'Need' and 'Want' come in two separate packages, a plea was more than he anticipated. Sherlock's cheeks were bright red, burning with loathing. It was abundantly clear that Sherlock hated himself for these human urges, for these human needs. "On the floor with you,"Mycroft said, bodily shoving the taller man to the polished wood at their feet. He whispered a soft command against the skin of Sherlock’s cock, "Breathe," before he taking him into his mouth. It's delicious the way Sherlock's length presses against the back of his throat as he takes him to the hilt, savoring the musk at his curls. Sherlock's posterior belongs in a museum, something for generations long past their time to revere. "Breathe," he says again, drawing his head back just before enveloping him whole. When Sherlock's twitching cock hit the back of his throat he caved to the curiosity of his fingers, letting them wander to the center of his arse, gently pressing.  
  
Sherlock followed the instructions to the letter, too flushed, too aroused, too undone to question it, a breathless moan rippling through him, heat coursing through his veins, tingling in the tips of his toes and up into his ears, one hand again fisting in Mycroft's hair. At each instruction he managed a deep breath, hips rising off the floor and toward the talented, wet mouth around him, a low wail and a gasp of surprise sounding at the feel of fingers at his backside, angled face flushed hot and pink, now trying to wriggle out of the clothes around his ankles, the heat in his belly pooling and causing sweat to prickle over the pale expanse of his skin. "Mycroft..." The name came out low, desperate, demanding, more of a questioning plea, an unspoken desire, a nameless trust as the younger man began to unravel completely, self-control and fierce independence melting away in the heat of his desires.  
  
Mycroft swallowed his length once, twice more before rocking back on his heels, surveying the damage. Sherlock was trembling head-to-foot, clothes pooled at his ankles, which simply would not do. It took less than a minute to divest the younger man of his shoes, trousers, and pants. Naked from the waist down, Sherlock was a creature of angles and defined planes. His thighs met his abdomen in a defined line worth of Michelangelo's attention. There was naught but the purpled fabric of Dolce and Gabbana separating Mycroft from the magnificent creature beneath him. Mycroft pressed gently down with his fingers, relishing their slide into the man beneath him.  
  
A short, almost panicked gasp rose from the man laid out on the floor of Mycroft's office, the skin between his brows furrowing at the new and unexpected feeling of his brother penetrating him, one leg cocking up to rest his foot flat on the floor, hips poised slightly off of it, as if afraid to sink back down against the intrusion, one arm rising to fling over his flushed face in an effort to hide it from the man hovering above him, eyes hidden in the crook of his elbow, mouth parted, panting slightly, long thighs quivering.  
  
"What was the first rule, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded, savoring the reckless abandon of his sibling. Equal parts protective compassion and bitter loathing war within him as he draws away from the apex at Sherlock's thighs, fingers coming to his mouth. It's obscene, the way he dips the digits into his wanton lips, savoring the excessive dampness that he has willingly called to attention under his tongue. "Stay with me, brother," he whispered, pressing the two slick fingers inwards.  
  
Sherlock abated by throwing his arm carelessly up above his head, wrist thumping against the floor, eyelids slowly unfurling to let his pale grey eyes take in the sight of Mycroft slicking his fingers, his own tongue sitting between his teeth, just showing between parted cupid's bow lips, so different from the wicked lips of his brother, spewing their elegant words, sending shivers through him with each syllable. His pale gaze followed those finger’s path downward until they disappeared from sight, his back arching up, inviting them deeper. The unbidden urge to suck on those fingers rose instinctively in him, the desire to lave his tongue across those clever, elegant digits, to taste the slight saltiness of them in his mouth. He opened it ever so slightly wider with the mere thought of it, a low, huffing sigh the only indication of his pleasure at being so handled by the skilled hand behind him.  
  
Mycroft pressed inward, slowly, breaching the porcelain skin beneath him. It was wrong and he loved it. John would be lost with Sherlock, no matter how his brother ached for the doctor. John was afraid of the flesh, where Mycroft embraced it. He curled his fingers upwards, caching the soft, distinct bulge of Sherlock's prostate. When Sherlock’s hips rose to meet Mycroft's fingers, the older man struck him, open palm with fingers splayed across his face. "Do not mistake tenderness for submission, Sherlock," he chastised, fearing for his sibling should he seek similar arousal from foreign hands.  
  
Sherlock’s face snapped sideways again, dark curls flying, bobbing around his face as the hand struck home, leaving another set of red fingerprints across the sharpness of his face, his grey eyes blazing for a moment, burning into the face of his older brother, but unable to stay so defiant under the sudden stabbing pleasure sending off white-hot lights behind his eyes, a low, full-throated moan ripping its way from the long column of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing, hips rocking desperately, aching for friction, for more of something, more of anything, cock twitching against his stomach, red with need and leaving a smear of pre-come across the flat valley of his stomach.  
  
"It's like you're bleeding, Sherlock," Mycroft proclaimed, trailing his fingers through the mess Sherlock has left across his abdomen. He reached down, taking himself in hand. Sherlock was capable of physically stopping what was coming next if he so desired. Mycroft never pretended to have the upper, physical hand, when it came to his brother. "Exhale," he instructed as he pressed the head of his cock against Sherlock, leaning into the body beneath him, "exhale and describe."  
  
The younger man clenched instinctively against his brother's cock, biting down hard on his tongue, willing himself to relax, to breathe, to disconnect with his body’s useless signals, the synapses firing rapidly in his brain. "What shall I describe for you, brother?" His voice came out low, slightly breathless, but still surprisingly silky, like dark velvet falling from his mouth. "Shall I list the various chemical reactions taking place in my brain? The effect of your clever fingers bringing sweat to my skin, perspiration, increased heart rate.... _Dull_." Eyes flickered brightly, inquisitively, as he trailed two fingers through the sticky substance on his skin before raising them and sliding them with obscene slowness into his mouth, sucking the taste of himself off, the hollows of his cheeks creating even sharper angles with the motion.  
  
Mycroft hissed at the visual obscenity. "Brother mine, have we done our research? Yes, yes of course we have," his voice trailed, eyes fixed on the two digits sliding between Sherlock’s lips. "Not that advancing a grade is beyond your scope," he whispered, hand darting out to fist in Sherlock's hair as his brother attempted to power-play him.  
  
"Whatever _advanced study_  you've done will not aid you this night," Mycroft hissed, anger flaring back to life. Sherlock never failed to attempt the upper hand. His natural ability to fib through any situation had, one horrific night, made mother cry. Mycroft had been helpless against her outburst -so many years ago- shielding his younger sibling against the rage. He bore the physical scars of that night to this day. "You've no idea your value, you idiot," Mycroft said, slipping his lips over Sherlock's cock.  
  
A hiss of breath corresponded with the rough treatment of Sherlock’s genitals, his hips wiggling from side to side for a moment, eyes burning into his brother's. And then Mycroft's wicked, beautiful mouth closed back around his cock, and Sherlock's head fell backward against the floor with a dull thud, a wail of want keening in his throat, echoing his brother's earlier motion by wrapping a hand in the other man's ginger hair, giving it a good tug for measure and gritting his teeth. There was a moment in which he teetered at the edge of climax, every muscle in his body drawing tight like a bowstring. He managed to draw himself back down, breathing hard through the nose, hips snapping up to push roughly against his brother's mouth, seeking more, trying again to take control, to assert his dominance, to not be swallowed by the raging tide of his older brother.  
  
Mycroft slid his lips off his brother and gained his feet as lithe as his youthful self. He turned his back to his half-naked sibling, biting his lip in furry. "Get. Up," Mycroft demanded.  
  
Sherlock sneered up at the other man, heart racing, brain flickering through all the possibilities of denying the other man, but he bit his tongue, holding back his retort and struggling to his feet, cock bobbing and slapping obscenely against his stomach.  
  
Mycroft gave in to the urge to strike Sherlock for all he's worth. "Go on, little brother, sneer at me," he said as though discussing the weather, hand at Sherlock's lower back, pressing him into the polished wood. "Laugh, Sherlock, gloat even," he practically spit as he aligns himself with the younger man's entrance," of course your mind can save you from everything," and Mycroft was lost to his rage. The shrieks of his mother, the cracking sound of leather from his father, all while his heart raced for tiny Sherlock; it all pulls him down. Mycroft growled, low and without restraint as he pressed sharply against Sherlock's backside, frankly not giving a damn if this is what the man was after of not. He was going to fuck the smugness right off that beautifully angled face. Without thought he drew his hand back and let his fist fly, savoring the impact and watching with rapt attention as a thin trail of blood leaks from the fresh wound at Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone.  
  
Sherlock let out a strangled cry at the sudden invasion of his body, trying to move forward against the desk and only succeeding in pinning himself farther, trapped between the hard bite of the wood on the front of his thighs and he heavy, hot intrusion splitting him from behind, sending waves of heat through his body, prickling his skin. He twisted backward, trying to see Mycroft's face and felt the sharp, clear sting of the other man's fist colliding with the planes of his face, a white light exploding behind his eyes, torso falling fully onto the table, non-bloodied cheek resting against the cool wood, his dark hair falling to obscure his eyes.  
  
"Do you not remember what it takes to make things 'soft,' dear brother? The structure must _yield_ ," he punctuated, grabbing Sherlock ruthlessly at the nape of his neck while pressing him into the rich wood of his desk. "Imagine the monster actually comes next," he whispered at his brother's ear, thrusting forward.  
  
Letting out a shout, pinioned against the dark wood now biting cruelly into his thighs, Sherlock’s eyes squeezed closed,  and he shut his mouth against the torment of sounds threatening to spill over, cock beginning to lose some of its life against the wood of the desk, its owner too distracted , too much blood flowing into his brain to fully stimulate between his legs.  
  
"Go on, Sherlock, tell me what John needs that you don't have. Honesty," he said, drawing back before pushing in to the hilt, "has a very..soothing...quality,"  
  
The younger man bit back a strangled moan, hands scrabbling on the desk for purchase, keeping his mouth stoically closed, and he turned his face into the wood to hide the flush of shame creeping onto his high cheekbones, coloring the tips of his ears.  
  
"I'll give you a hint; the answer is not, 'a vagina,' dear brother. How is that for sincerity?" he asked, drawing as far back as he could before snapping his hips forward, burying himself in the man again."Come now, when does Sherlock not have an answer?"  
  
Reaching behind himself, Sherlock tried desperately to push the other man away, biting so hard on his bottom lip that a drop of crimson blossomed and fell like a scarlet tear down his chin. "You don't.... You don't get to talk about him. he's not... not part of this."  
  
Mycroft nearly choked with loathing. _Damn_ Sherlock. Damn his agile mind and his unique genius and his childlike fragility. Damn his pushing, his constant testing. Damn John Watson and his roaringly attractive dedication, his flawless commitment. Mycroft reached around his brother and took the man firmly in hand, noting the physical signs of dwindling enthusiasm. Mycroft pressed a hand, flat and obvious, against Sherlock's mouth. He groaned as Sherlock's agile tongue danced across his palm. Drawing away from the eager mouth, the older Holmes drags his newly-moistened hand across Sherlock, "What is it you can't offer your soldier, Sherlock?"  
  
A noise of frustrated tension roared deep within the younger man as his aching prick was once more taken in hand, hips bucking into the contact and by proxy, back and forth along his brother's length. When the hand was pressed to his mouth, he obediently laved it with his tongue, savoring the slightest tang of sweat, the natural texture of the skin, the metallic bite of Mycroft's ring, the question emotionally crippling him, dragging down the last of his barriers, leaving him raw, broken as he incessantly fucks himself between his brother's hand and cock. He was undone, forehead falling to the desk, a low, keening moan, a desperate pleas rising in him. "Please, Mycroft.... Please let me come..."  
  
Mycroft slowed his movements and leaned over his brother, lips resting at his ear. He ran his tongue along the rim, sliding his hand to complete an upstroke, thumb pressing into the slit at the head of his cock, "There is no such thing as a free lunch, brother. Tell. Me." he instructs, slowing his rhythm as he fucked Sherlock from behind, hastening the pace of his fist over Sherlock's cock, lips trailing gently along the back of Sherlock's neck.  
  
Sherlock was gradually falling into the waves of pleasure crashing around him, over-stimulated by hands and lips and god that feeling of fullness sliding against him and oh how he wishes it was John, John here, sliding against him, John's skin on his, John's hands, John's lips. He feels the bitter, hot pricking in his eyes that tells him he is well and truly done. "I can't.... He doesn't want me....He is incapable of feeling romantic love for another man, and although he does feel some level of sexual attraction to me, would never act on it... Because he..." The words choking in his throat. "he loves me.... But not the way I love him." Sherlock closed his eyes tight, a heaviness settling in his chest, words soft, pleading. "Please Mycroft... please... now, I need to..."  
  
The stolen confession burned as fiercely as fire. He was sure he disagreed; sure that John relieved himself most evenings with thoughts of Sherlock, but his brother was not. He looked down on his brother, fully absorbing the situation for the first time this evening. Sherlock was beautiful in his wanton abandon, tears sliding down the length of his cheek to mingle with the blood on his chin. The man was brilliant, yet prone to startling levels of ignorance. His pain, however, resonated on a shockingly close level. Mycroft exhaled and pulled himself out away from Sherlock in tandem with his grasping hands. He latchedon to the side of Sherlock's neck, "That is all nonsense, brother," Mycroft uttered before losing himself, sucking at the apex of neck and shoulder, "you've undersold yourself again." Mycroft pushed thoughts of nights long-past from his mind and breathed in Sherlock, syncing the movements of his hand and his body.  
  
Biting back a sob and a moan, a strangled, desperate sound rose in the younger Holmes. "Don't. Don't say it. I don't want it. Just... Just god, Mycroft just fuck me, please, touch me, suck me, please, please brother..." One hand wrapped around behind him in a vain attempt to pull the other man back closer, to lose himself in blissful friction of skin and heat.  
  
Mycroft pressed his forehead to Sherlock's spine and exhaled  a trembling breath against his skin. He gently latches his lips just below Sherlock's ear as he quieted his grip on Sherlock's cock, angling sharper into his brother's exquisite body. "It's all fine," he whispered, echoing that taped conversation between detective and flatmate all those nights before. Sherlock's hips jumpped out of sync, though Mycroft expertly followed pace. He stilled Sherlock's hips with one hand, continuing the rhythm in and out of the Consulting Detective, all the while ensuring his own hands moved in tandem with the silent music. Mycroft leand in close, savoring the trembling in the younger man's limbs, "Go on, then, over it is with you,"  
  
  
Brows furrowed exquisitely at the other man's choice of words, Sherlock’s head filled with that night, with John, _johnjohjohn_ , his John. And then the pressure was building, and Mycroft was soothing him, and they were there together, Sherlock and Mycroft and John, all together in the blissful empty space in his head, stars bursting like firecrackers, his body drawn up, tensing and releasing with reckless abandon, with a heady moan, and the bliss of it engulfed him, white-hot and beautiful in its potency, leaving white sticky streaks across his stomach, across his brother's once immaculate desk, until he was sinking down into it, breathless and in wonder.  
  
Mycroft went to ground with him, pulling Sherlock to his chest. "People are never simple, Sherlock, no matter how much you wish that to be true." He pulled his brother to him, entwining his taller form in his arms as best he could manage. His hair tickled Mycroft's nose, and he buried deeper into the rich, scented body of those curls.  
  
Sher found himself  breathing heavily, eyelids weighty, and instinctively fidgeting and worming his way closer into his brother's embrace, voice low and soft. "Don't patronize me, Mycroft."  
  
"On many occasions, brother." he relented, pulling the man closer to him, refusing his swift withdraw, "though not tonight."  
  
Sherlock turned and let out a soft huff of air, moving closer into his brother's arms, wrapping his own around the thin form beside him, the prickle of the expensive three-piece suit against his skin reminding him of the reality of things, grounding him.  
  
He savored Sherlock's rare embrace, feeling the man's heart race against his own. He was silent for nearly half an hour, cataloguing each vocalization, each movement from his brother. "Promise me, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered at length, fingers absently combing through his dark curls, "that you will arrive on my doorstep before another's when this mood strikes you, until such a time that you've found a suitable alternative to me?"  
  
Sherlock hummed back softly, relaxing farther under the feel of his older brother's hands combing through his hair, the sensation comforting, the gentle way he moved imperceptibly closer, and Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the crook of Mycroft's neck, all the answer he would give, a resounding a silent yes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of a long series of PWLP (Porn With a Little Plot) which will heavily rely on John Watson in later chapters. 
> 
> Written by Amphigoriously and Eden Kestral
> 
> http://amphigoriously.tumblr.com/
> 
> ~
> 
> http://edenkestral.tumblr.com/


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